


Acquisition of the Carrion Estate

by Sal (BluewoolRedfish)



Series: Under the Stairs [1]
Category: Abarat Series - Clive Barker
Genre: Gen, POV: You are Lazaru and you want to beat the piss out of Pixler, Pre-Canon, Real Estate Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28506393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BluewoolRedfish/pseuds/Sal
Summary: Usually the procedure of selling royal land parcels was lengthy and tedious at best, but at the time the first inquiry came in Lazaru had no way of knowing how much longer it would become. Master Pixler had fought with the Carrion Estate tooth, nail, and fang for everything.
Series: Under the Stairs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088126
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Acquisition of the Carrion Estate

Her ship had arrived to port early. Good news for Lazaru: It gives her a few extra moments to prepare her thoughts for what was likely going to be a tiresome conversation. She had told her chauffeur to take the scenic route to her destination, and to go as slow as she wanted.

Her dossier sits heavily on her lap. In it were months worth of revisions, and the (hopefully) final draft of the purchase agreement. Going over it would be a pointless effort - Its contents were known to her backward, forward, and upside-down. The estate steward had very carefully committed the blasted thing to memory. Rojo Pixler was known to be thorough, annoyingly so.

It was this man, Rojo Pixler, that Lazaru was to meet and bargain with. Lazaru hadn’t met him in person yet. From reports, newspaper clippings, and gossip she thought she had a very solid picture of him. First and foremost he was an inventor and entertainer; mostly known by his wind up toys for children. He was a man with a plan, no, a dream. A dream to build a city of lights, ever burning on the island of Pyon.

The Carrion Plot, along with its orchard, had thus become a target of his purchases. It did sit on one of the most fertile spots on the island, and had a magnificent view of the natural sweeping landscape. One of her staff had suggested Pixler had been eyeing it for years; but the official inquiry of its sale was only months old. And what an inquiry it was.

Lord Carrion had never had much sentiment for the plot - it was with indifference that he had told her to sell it off. Dreams die easily, he had told her. So she had set to the business of selling the plot. Usually the procedure of selling royal land parcels was lengthy and tedious at best, but at the time the first inquiry came in Lazaru had no way of knowing how much longer it would become. Master Pixler had fought with the Carrion Estate tooth, nail, and fang for everything.

The inventor’s representatives sent revision upon revision, all of them ridiculous in their demands, and none of them offering nearly enough compensation for what they were asking. This revision game went on for several months until finally Lazaru had seen enough. She sent her final offer along with a very blunt warning that the Carrion Estate would not entertain Pixler any longer. Either he accepted their terms or there would be no deal; the Carrion Plot would sit, burnt, ugly, and twisted in the middle of his city.

In about a week, there came an almost sheepish reply from Pixler himself. It wasn’t handwritten (nothing that came from his offices were - they were garishly printed on some sort of machine) but it was on personal stationary. Instead of addressing it to Carrion Estate, it was pointedly addressed to Lazaru herself. In it he asked to speak with her personally. He wanted to impart to her the “importance of his vision” and that “perhaps a personal visit shall illustrate the needs of Commexo City.”

“The “needs of Commexo City”…” her own grumbling was strangely loud, “Ludicrous.”

Closer and closer her carriage came to the new buildings of Commexo. She didn’t know what to expect when Pixler’s lawyers claimed it would be “a city of lights”. The only lights she knew of were oil lamps, fires, the stars, the moon, and the enchantments of Motley’s Seamstresses. Watching lanterns whiz by, however, she noticed something. These lights were something else. They were bright white, gleaming with such a phosphorescence that she was astonished. At first. The more lights rolled past her carriage window she realized she had missed a light source: Electric.

She’d only seen them a few times. Gorgussium, her home island, was not fond of electricity. Only a few people invested in this newer technology. Her wife, Pip, had fallen in love with electric lights. She thought they were beautiful. The thought of her made Lazaru smile to herself in the dark cabin. Oil lamps, candles, and flames were enough for her. Lazaru sits back, idly wondering how the inventor was planning on powering this whole debacle.

The city was clearly still under construction - roads half built, the skeletons of homes and businesses only just put into place, and equipment left in disarray. Yet Commexo’s landscape took shape in front of her eyes the closer she came to her destination. Each consecutive building was more whole than the last, until finally it was as if the city had always been there.

It was when the construction was long past them that the carriage came to a soft halt. Nelit, the chauffeur, knocked against the window.

“We’ve arrived, Master Lazaru.” Her door is opened for her. Part of her regretted agreeing to this trip. She could see past Nelit’s shoulder the entrance of the “office building” (for that is what Pixler called it) and in front of the glass doors stood three people. Stepping out and walking closer, she could identify two of them.

The first one was obviously Rojo Pixler himself. He looked, to her, completely average. A white man with two eyes, a shock of red hair, and stark white clothing. To his left is a black woman who, if Lazaru had to guess, was Thale Arderim. She and Lazaru had exchanged letters many a time. From Thale’s expression Lazaru could guess that the two of them were equally tired of the situation. The third man is a little shorter than Pixler and much shorter than Thale. He’s nervous, that was certain, and he was looking intently at a chart as he tried to capture Pixler’s attention.

Lazaru was only a few strides away when the nervous stranger’s ramblings were clear enough to hear.

“It’s not possible - you can’t actually think that-”

He gets cut off by a cleanly manicured hand from Pixler. Who, unlike Thale, seems delighted to be here.

“Not now, Dr. Voorzangler. You can plainly see our guest of the hour has arrived.” His tone was practiced; a perfectly happy voice, “You must be Lazaru, yes?”

The same hand that was held up to stop Dr. Voozangler’s chatterings was now being extended to Lazaru. A clear gesture that he was intending to shake hands with her. Just as with the electric lights, Lazaru was caught off guard. She had not anticipated that manners would be different here; most nobility (or people who were as rich as nobility) had a way to deal with servants. Curt, to the point, and they certainly don’t touch them. Even being the estate steward of the Carrions, Lazaru was hardly ever met with decency. This place was getting more and more suspicious by the second.

As the estate steward, however, she was well practiced at reading the room. As such she quickly extended her hand and took Pixler’s. It was a solid handshake. For that she was relieved.

“I am the Carrion Estate representative, yes.” Lazaru hoped that this discussion would be over quickly. One grey and withered look from Thale told her that would probably not be the case.

“Good, good, you’re a little earlier than we anticipated. Dr. Voorzangler was just about to leave.”

The look on Voorzangler’s face was in clear disagreement with Pixler’s statement. His one lazy eye trailed behind the other more industrious one as he barely kept down an eye roll.

“Yes, of course. But Mr. Pixler, please, when you’re done with this…”

“I will look at your report. But when I’m done.” Pixler flashed a perfectly white, bland smile at Voorzangler, who promptly turned and left. Then his attention was on Lazaru. She took this as her moment to get straight to business.

“Master Pixler-”

“Oh no! Mr. Pixler is fine.” He seemed to have a penchant for interruptions, this one.

“Mr. Pixler,” she holds the dossier to her chest, “Thank you for your invitation to discuss this matter in person. We are eager to close this issue once and for all.”

“We?” says Pixler, looking back at the carriage, something like hope flickering in his eyes “Is someone else with you?”

“She’s using the Royal “we”. As in, ‘The Carrion Estate’, sir.” corrects Thale. She walks up to Lazaru and extends her hand as well. Her grip is firm, and warm. “I’m sure you know me, Lazaru.”

“I do, it’s a pleasure to put a face to your name, Thale.”

Pixler looked on with a pleased look plastered on his face. “Ah, now that introductions are out of the way let’s get going, shall we?”

“So we shall.”

He turns around, clasping his hands behind his back, left in right, and strides toward a set of doors. Thale lingers behind, waiting for Lazaru.

The glass doors slide open quietly. Pixler excitedly explained how the doors worked, then began pointing out other bits and pieces of the architecture in the building. They passed through several hallways in this fashion: Pixler pointing and explaining, her listening.

Finally they come out of the building and into an alleyway. Waiting innocently is a carriage, no, Lazaru realizes, an automobile. Just as with the electric lights, Lazaru had seen automobiles before. In fact, she knew there were some licensed automobilists on Gorgossium. They were scarce. The roads of Iniquisit were not easy on their delicate machinery.

“You like it? Its of my own design.” Pixler had walked up to the machine and was patting the front, like one would pet their dog.

“It’s… very white,” she says non-committedly. It was indeed very white. Even the wheels were white. The thing looked like it was glowing. It’s design was also a lot more compact than the other models she had seen. If Pixler was disappointed with her answer he didn’t show it. He hopped into the driver seat and then beckoned they join him.

“Let’s get going!”

Another surprise.

“We… Are getting in the automobile?” she asks, just to be sure.

“We are! And we’ll be using it too!”

Thale gives Lazaru a look as she walks by to get into the contraption which could easily be translated into a mental pat on the back. She had seen automobiles, sure, but never trusted them enough to use them. If Lazaru were a lesser woman she would have stammered some sort of excuse not to get into the damn thing. Unfortunately for her nerves, she’s too prideful for that. She clambers into the seat next to Pixler (who had patted the seat next to him once or twice) and mentally prepares herself for whatever was going to happen next.

“Also, Lazaru? No one says ‘automobile’ anymore. It’s a car.” explains Pixler as he turns a key in the dashboard, and the “car” hums to life.

“They don’t have cars like this on Gorgossium, sir.” says Thale, “Give her some slack.”

Lazaru would have loved to respond but it was at that moment that the car began to move. It was a loud machine. A fast machine, and on the new, sleek roads, it was smooth. Not smooth enough to ease the motion sickness, but still.

“First time?” asks Thale, leaning forward and speaking loudly over the din.

“In a car? Yes,” admits Lazaru, “Where are we going, exactly?”

“To our central office building. We were just at the planning committee’s office.”

“Why wasn’t I given the address of this central building?” Lazaru is a little irritated. If this was planned just so that this damnable fool could show off his idiotic contraption then she would stop the sale completely out of spite.

“Because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to show you my inventions!” laughs Pixler. Lazaru grit her teeth together. Of course.

She tries to pace herself when the car finally comes to a halt by the side of a towering building. She gets out deliberately, and hopes that would mask the fact that the surprise car-ride had rattled her. The area in front of the central office (for this is what she assumed it to be) looks like a plaza. A non-functioning fountain sat in it’s circular center, around the rim of the plaza were benches, trash bins, and empty planters. Save two contractors who busied themselves with measuring and fine tuning a few things, the place was devoid of people.

One look at Pixler told her that something about this ordinary scene was amiss. His otherwise perfectly placid face was subtly strained. Thale’s expression was a little more obvious.

“Oh dear,” said the lawyer, mostly to herself.

“Indeed,” said the inventor.

“What is it?” asked the estate agent.

“I have to apologize, this was supposed to be finished by now.” The strain was present in his voice, as well. His voice carried far - the empty plaza working like an echo chamber. He waves a charismatic hand over the plaza scene. “I wanted you to be able to see what the end product could look like.”

Unfinished or not, it hardly mattered to Lazaru. Many things here were new to her; certainly not construction. The Toto Mines were nigh endlessly being re-constructed, forming and re-forming as demands for the mud were met. Iniquisit itself was in a constant state of creation. Buildings went up and then down again. Roads were cobbled and then washed away. The fact that there were no guttering rigs, machines, and hammers at work was enough to impress even her. She can’t help but give Pixler a quirk of a smile.

“The end product is of no interest to me, certainly not in areas that are already yours.” she refused to admit that she had an inkling of curiosity, “Only the end result for the estate.”

The man deflated for a moment. This brought some satisfaction to Lazaru. He had, after all, almost given her a heart attack with the car.

“No use in staying out here, then.” Thale motions towards the doors of the central office, “Let’s get going.”

The doors to the building slide open by themselves. Lazaru vaguely recalls Pixler’s explanation of “optical sensors” manning all sets of entrances and exits - and notes the eye-like application in the center of the door frame.

Thale walks in and dives behind a counter, Lazaru’s guess was that this was a reception area. The lights are dimmed here, and there is no one inside. She realizes, perhaps belatedly, she had no idea who to give her coat to. During any average transaction, if she were ever to visit personally with a potential buyer, she would at the very least have her coat taken to a coat room. Then perhaps they would share a drink and a cigar in their smoking room. If she were lucky even get a meal from it. Afterwards they would swiftly move onto business.

This visit is anything but average. Thale and Pixler are idly chatting at the reception desk. It seems Thale is looking for a key of sorts.

“The elevator key,” she explains as Lazaru walks over, “We planned for you to come during a break. But that does mean no one else is here to unlock them so we can get to the upper levels.”

“You… have used an elevator, haven’t you?” asks Pixler in a tone that doesn’t quite convey if he’s trying to be polite or if he’s trying to tease her.

Lazaru’s mind flicks back to the towers. Elevators were an essential part of her daily life. Cramped servant elevators, industrial ones (the kind that were so huge the ascent was at an incline), royal “ascension rooms”, loud ones, smooth ones, swift ones, she’s seen them all. If Gorgussium could pride itself in any menial task it would be the art of ascent and descent in speed and comfort. Here, she knew they had Pixler beat.

“No, never,” someone could hold a cup beneath her response and catch the sarcasm dripping from it, “I live in a dirt floor home built with sticks, after all.”

Thale barks a laugh. Lazaru was beginning to like her. Pixler all but pouts as the woman comes around from the desk with a key in her hands. They follow Thale deeper into the building.

“Well, you haven’t used a car before!”

“I’m from the Towers of Iniquisit, Mr. Pixler,” There is an extra emphasis on the word “towers”, “If we only had stairs we wouldn’t be able to get anything done.”

She pauses. Now it was her turn to ask a snide question. “You have seen them, haven’t you? The Thirteen Towers?”

Again, Thale laughs. This time a giggle. Although Pixler does control his expression, the skin on his ears turns red.

“I’ve yet had the pleasure to visit Gorgussium in person,” He admits, “But I assure you, that once we settle this I’ll have to visit you!”

“Of course.” The hallways are all the same, and for a moment Lazaru wonders if they’re ever going to reach their destination. Thale does eventually stop in a corridor of elevator doors. “I’m positive my lord would love to meet you in the flesh.”

“Yes, well… I suppose so. Who doesn’t want to meet me?” He sounds a bit nervous.

“Hm.” Is all she can muster as a response. Luckily the chime of the elevator bell saves her from having to say much else. They climb in, and Thale presses the button to their floor, number fifteen.

“In any case my offices are through the exhibition room,” Pixler begins talking again, “It’s one of my favorites, the exhibition room, I mean. It has all sorts of things about the city.”

“Interesting. And I suspect you’d like me to peruse this room?”

“You should,” Thale is looking idly at her nails, “I’m going to be preparing the paperwork for you and Mr. Pixler in his office. It’s mostly all ready, but I just want to go over everything. Just to make sure.”

She wasn’t lying, but Lazaru still expected that Pixler had set Thale up to convince her to look through his exhibit.

“So I see.” Again, the bell neatly rings before she needs to say anything else.

Off the elevator they go. Here the room is purposefully dark, with a few spotlights on certain objects, paintings, or display cases. An elaborate curio cabinet. One with the singular purpose of illuminating Rojo Pixler’s genius. Lazaru chooses a random direction, quietly determined not to be impressed by anything she finds here.

Each display was set up in chronological order. One was a series of sketched out maps, these evolved into to-scale drawings, then into a whole model of the city. After that was another series of car models, ones that worked, ones that failed. Then another case of small wind up toys with the banner: “First of their kind”. Pixler’s humble beginnings as a toymaker. The man who was anxiously following her around, pointing and rambling about each and every lit up figure.

The largest of these displays was about a cartoon figure of a child. Series of white stands light up the child’s creation. Again, there were sketches, and models, but they changed design often. One had a head full of hair, another completely bald, one striped shirted and the next in a dress. The only factor that remained consistent amongst all of these was the smile: Wide and grinning from ear to ear. The final design sat at the end. Here Lazaru actually gave pause to read the description.

“The Commexo Kid…” she mumbled aloud, leaning down to read the tiny script.

“Oh yes! My favorite!”

Lazaru knew it was a mistake to even feign interest. Now that it was the real feeling, she decides to indulge the inventor. She points at the final design - a young boy child with that huge smile - and turns to Pixler.

“This one? Or the concept in general?”

“Oh the whole concept of the Kid,” he beams, “I knew I wanted something to inspire happiness, joy, and trust. You know, a marketing idea. Something to sell toys. But the more I worked on him the more I realized that I liked the goofy little fellow.”

“I see. And does this goofy little fellow have a name?”

“Just ‘The Kid’. Just The Commexo Kid. Something easy to remember, you know,” He was looking up at the figure on the stand now. The light caught in his eyes.

Looking at him like this, Lazaru could almost understand why people would want to follow Pixler. His dream poured from him. Here it could take shape; as The Kid, or maybe as the plaza below, or his cars, but it was something tangible. At the very least this man could show his worth. His dream, and devotion to it, was not enough to convince Lazaru to let him have it his way.

Pixler waved his hand in one sweeping motion across the room.

“Do you like these sorts of things?” It was a loaded question. Lazaru would be satisfied to deny him.

“No.” his face subtly fell again. It was as fulfilling as she thought it would be to shoot him down. “I don’t. It’s not my taste. But my wife would go crazy for this.”

She didn’t quite understand why she tacked on that last bit. In any conversation, especially business, she did her best not to mention her personal life. In this dark room of displayed dreams it felt natural to talk about her. An image of her spouse flickered in the back of her mind. A slight woman with coils of bright blue hair, wearing her favorite white dress.

At the mention of her wife, Pixler’s crestfallen expression jumped to a dumbfounded one. Out of all the looks he’d given her it’s the most honest and sudden.

“You’re wife? You’re married?” He sounds appalled. The image of her partner disappeared, being quickly replaced by a lovely visual of herself kicking Pixler’s head in.

“Don’t act so surprised, Mr. Pixler. It doesn’t suit you.”

“No, no, I.. Excuse me, I meant…” He stammers, raising his hands in an apologetic manner, “You don’t seem the type, I mean.”

“To be married?”

“Well… Yes. You’re so…” he waves his hand, trying to think of the best way to smooth over the situation, “You’re very businesslike.”

At least he’s being honest.

“I’m here on business, sir. Of course I’m going to be businesslike.” She wasn’t going to mention that she was like this all the time. Even outside of her work.

“Hm, yes, of course…”

The two walk to another display. It’s plans for an insect museum. Apparently Pixler intended to create an all new lexicon detailing all forms of life within the Archipelago of the Abarat. Lazaru pretends to be invested in the pinned beetles behind the glass when Pixler decides to pipe up again.

“What’s her name?”

“Whose name?”

“Your wife. What’s her name?”

“Ciopipellen. ‘Pip’ for short.” Lazaru mentally kicks herself for mentioning her in the first place, and for replying so quickly.

“Pip? That’s a very cute name.”

“It’s supposed to be.” Her response is terse. She wants to stop whatever conversation Pixler is trying to make. They move on to another display: one about medicine.

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

What is taking Thale so long?

“Ah, and do you want any?”

“Do you want children, Mr. Pixler?” flipping uncomfortable questions on the questioner was a tactic she’d learned from her mother. It usually worked in shutting up whoever was asking. Not Rojo Pixler, though.

“I do have a child, actually.” He slightly turns around and points at the large display of The Commexo Kid.

“Congratulations.”

A beat of blissful silence.

“You’re not going to say anything about it?”

“About what?”

“The Kid. Usually when I make that joke people try and disagree with me,” he admits. It sounds sheepish.

“I’m a very agreeable person,” her own joke doesn’t quite land, “Besides, I’ve known people claiming odder things as their children. The Commexo Kid is as good as your son, as long as you love him.”

A memory of Christopher Carrion tapping against the glass of his collar comes to her mind. Pixler is tame compared to him.

“Oh. How open minded of you.”

“Thank you.”

A welcoming sound of footsteps lets Lazaru turn away from their conversation. Thale walks up to them, breathing a little hard. She must have run around the exhibit trying to find them.

“There you are!” she breathes deeply for a moment, “Everything is ready. When you’re done can you ping me? I’ll be in my office.”

“You won’t be with us to negotiate?” Lazaru was hoping that the woman would be with them. She seemed to have a normal head on her shoulders.

“I’ll be with you in spirit. I’ve rewritten the agreement to your previous terms - and outlined a few more points that we wanted to have in there.”

She barely sounds apologetic.

“Excellent! You’re excellent, Thale. Now let’s get going.” He clasps his hands behind his back, and off they were. She looks behind her shoulder at the other woman. Thale gives Lazaru a wave, and then she too is gone.

The inventor leads Lazaru through the maze of display cabinets, through a door, and then through a second maze of desks. These were all partially cordoned off by short walls. Dozens of these small desk-cubes lined the room. Each table had some sort of box, a phone, and some books or paperwork scattered about. The boxes were white on 3 sides of a smooth material she doesn’t recognize, the front black and made from glass. Lazaru idly wonders what this bizarre set up could possibly achieve.

“Here we are!” Pixler fishes through his pockets to pull out a card. He slides it into a thin box attached to the wall. “This isn’t where my office will be staying, of course, I’ll be making my own building at some point.”

The box chirps, flashes green, and Pixler opens the door. Behind it is a very standard, very clinical set up. A large desk, some cabinets, and a tall floor to ceiling window. This desk has the same oblong box as the other desk-cubes. It is larger, its glass front glossier too.

“You can hang your coat there.” he points to a coat hanger beside the door then takes his place behind the desk. She hangs it up and sits across from him. Finally. The moment to end this months long debacle is here. Her relief must be clear to Pixler.

“The end is in sight, hm?”

“It is, indeed.”

She places her dossier on the intensely white table in front of her. The black leather stands out against the surface; much like the charred remains of the Carrion plot in Pixler’s bright city.

“So, about the edits-” begins Pixler excitedly.

“They won’t be happening.” It brings Lazaru an intense amount of pleasure to cut him off.

“Oh come now, you’ve seen what I’m planning! There are certain changes that need to be made-”

“No,” she interrupts again, “Mr. Pixler, you cannot have everything you ask for. No matter how bright your future is, the past cannot be left in the dark.”

“And it won’t be! We’ve told you, there will be a memorial set up on the spot of the mansion!” his protest was a weak one, even he knew it.

“The one we requested? The one you asked to change into a bench plaque?” the reminder is unnecessary, but she enjoys watching him squirm a little, “We’ve acquiesced to your towers-”

“Skyscrapers.”

“Skyscrapers. But you’d dig up the rich soils of the orchard, not for agriculture, but to plant a waste-water treatment facility? On royal land?”

“It’s the only place where it could logically go,” he argues. “It’s optimal! You’ve seen the plans.”

“I have. And you can place the treatment facility in any number of places. You will not be pumping raw sewage into the Carrion estate. That’s final.”

That wonderful silence descends upon them again. Pixler taps against the table with a neatly manicured finger. She needs a smoke. Lazaru reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small cigarillo container. She pulls one out.

“Oh, you can’t—” Pixler begins his sentence right as she lights it and takes a deep draw, “—smoke here.”

No wonder he hadn’t offered her any cigars. In lieu of an ashtray she takes the cigarillo from her lips and presses the lit end to her tongue. It’s a trick she learned long ago, and a bad habit, but it does the job of snuffing it out without leaving any ash on his furniture. She wondered if drinking was allowed.

“You must think you’re real tough,” he says, watching as she puts it back into the container and in her pocket.

“I think I grow tired of your games. The contract is final, either you sign or I leave.” Lazaru hopes her statement serves as a killing blow to his hopes about the land. He chews the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking.

“Sewage can be converted into fertilizer…” He spoke so quietly she almost couldn’t hear him.

“Mr. Pixler,” the estate agent hadn’t been lying, this was it. She gets up, “You can sign, or I leave.”

“No, no, wait. Please.” He raises his hands again, the same way as he had after the blunder about her marriage status. She doesn’t sit down again, but she does look at him expectantly.

“What if we used it for both agriculture and sewage treatment?” This got an eyebrow raised from Lazaru, “It’s a possibility. The bacteria we’d be using could be transformed into a fertilizer - and mixed with the ashes of the fire…”

The last part of his new proposal was barely a mumble. He turned to his desk-box and pressed a button. The glass end lit up, and it made a long series of clicks and hums. The inventor pulls out what looks like the bottom half of a type writer.

“One moment, let me message Thale about this. Listen, I know you’re tired of this but I can certainly use the land for agricultural purposes.”

He begins tapping against the board. Whatever the device is, it can be used for communication. So this is what Thale had meant by “pinging” her.

As he busies himself by typing out his message to Thale, Lazaru looks out the tall window across from her. It’s a balcony, she realizes. The horizon is dotted with hundreds of lights. She thinks about The Kid, about the electric bulbs, the smooth roads. She thinks about blue hair, a white dress, lit up, drinking in this new metropolis. Something shifts.

“I can bend the rules for you, Mr. Pixler.” She raises a hand as Pixler opens his mouth to respond, “On a few conditions.”

“Yes, go on.” Pixler’s full attention weighs heavily on her.

“If you can figure out a way to make use of the orchard for its intended purpose, you may have your waste-water facility.”

“Oh, Lazaru, I assure you-”

“And we want full access to your new lexicon of life.” she couldn’t help but interrupt him again. It really was too fun, “We want all information you have, any samples you keep, and we want to be amongst the first to hear it.”

Pixler makes no secret of his confusion. To be fair, Lazaru was adding the second condition on a whim. Gorgossium had its own bestiaries and compendiums; yet something about Pixler’s new ways of doing things made her think he could give them a whole new perspective on their own findings.

“I… see…” he starts, still tapping the desk. If he was suspicious of her intent, he didn’t show it. “I’ll tell Thale to add it in. She’ll be here in a moment, you can review, and we can sign.”

“Good.” Lazaru pulls out her officiate stamp and signet ring. She looks about his stark desk, “Where’s your sealing wax?”

After a brief moment of confusion (Pixler did not have any candles, sealing wax, stamps, and no knowledge of breath signing), arguing about contract language, and a heated debate about the use of calligraphy, the purchase agreement was finally signed. To Lazaru’s acute relief: it was over.

To a second degree of relief, she finds out drinking is allowed. Pixler pulls out a bottle of Black Egg Wine and two shot glasses from somewhere beneath his desk. The glasses are inappropriate for wine, but Lazaru is taking whatever she could get at this point. They go out on the balcony.

“To your city,” she says, lazily raising her glass.

“To my city,” he raises his and takes a drink.

She looks over the landscape that changed her mind, then motions to it with her free hand.

“So where are you going to put the red light district?” she’s partially joking. Only partially.

“Oh, there won’t be one.” She can’t tell if he’s being facetious or not, “They’re inappropriate.”

So he was serious then. Lazaru politely swallows her rude reply with the rest of her wine. He pours her another glass.

“Are you sure you’re going to visit Gorgossium some day?” she asks instead. If he thinks strip clubs are inappropriate then maybe her hometown wasn’t the place he’d want to go.

“Sure, I said I wanted to.” The inventor says it in a tone that all but cements the fact that he’s never going to go. Then, “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” she doesn’t bother to hide her incredulity.

“Come now, you’ve met my son.” A joke.

“So I have.” She’s already finished her second cup of wine. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I need an honest opinion.”

“I’d be happy to give it to you, friend or not.”

He laughs weakly at this. Pours himself another glass.

“Do you think that this is possible? Commexo City, that is?”

She was going to need another glass, and he kindly fills her cup a third time. Lazaru leans against the railing of the balcony. Looks at the dazzling lights below. Blue hair, white dress.

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I do think you will build your city, Pixler.” She takes a sip of her drink, but doesn’t really taste it, “I think that people will love to live here, even without the strip clubs. But I think you’re asking the wrong question.”

“Oh? What should I be asking?”

“Will it last?” She taps the side of her head, “Koy was a city ahead of its time, and you know what happened to them. You need to ask yourself: “How long will my city last?” What can you do to make sure it doesn’t come to an unlikely end?”

“We have all sorts of disaster relief-”

“No, not things of that nature.” She still can’t help with the interruptions. “There’s always something unexpected around the corner for dreamers like you.”

“That’s a… very distressing thing to say,” He says after a moment of consideration. “But I think I understand.”

“Do you?” she thinks about Iniquisit; whoever founded her city understood, “Well, regardless, I’m glad that we were able to settle. Hopefully I never have to deal with you again.”

Pixler places a hand to his chest in mock offense. “And here I thought we were friends!”

“Hmm.” She puts her glass down on the small wire table and makes her way back inside, “Does that mean I can find my own way out?”

“Absolutely not. I will walk with you. Actually if you don’t mind staying longer, we can arrange a hotel stay and-”

“Gracious, no.” She puts on her coat and grabs her dossier.

“You don’t mince words, do you?” Pixler scuttles behind her, putting on his own jacket as she walks out of his office, “Are you anxious to see your wife again? You know, I’m trying to design a device that allows one to speak to and see others from far away.”

Lazaru grits her teeth. The trip back to her carriage was going to be a very, very long one.

**Author's Note:**

> Lazaru only has like.... 3 or so spoken lines in the books. She always caught my interest, though, so I'm trying to do her a little justice by given her a larger role in the servant Hierarchy. Specifically as the Estate Steward (Which, in the Hereafter was classically only given to male servants, but whatever).
> 
> For anyone that's curious, this is how I envisioned Lazaru from the books: https://abaratabridged.tumblr.com/post/631599533006127104/i-colored-the-lazaru-sketches-in-the-painting-she
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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